I am shocked that I am here.
Look at this flesh, so thin
So pale
So brittle
Like an eggshell- cracked.
It seems so easy to crush
And yet
You'd never guess the blows it has taken
Without crumbling.
I wonder if I'd be respected if my injuries showed on the outside.
I wonder if I'd be feared.
There is a point when pity turns to fear, you know- when the thought is spawned that something SHOULD be dead, and isn't.
A mistrust forms,
An uneasiness.
I feel it sometimes when I look too long into my own eyes in the mirror
And see flashes in their depths: all the silvery memories of pain
Like little fish, like little blades.
I feel disquieted at the notion
That I can hold a sea of suffering
And sigh out only sweetness.
It's not that suffering has sewn no cruelty inside me-
Quite the opposite, it has been a spark caught on the breeze, and something hot and dark
Rages in here nearly all the time.
But only in here.
I have seen too many hurt souls
Hurt others
And I refuse to do the same.
And although it is extraordinary that I am not ground to dust by the blows landed from outside
What I am truly surprised about is that I have not been shattered
From in here.
I am crueler than most people you've met
But only to myself.
Only inside.
I am like a paper lantern-
All flames inside and soft glow out.
And I refuse to hurt you. I refuse to. That is my revenge upon everyone
Who has ever been cruel to me:
It ends here.
Now.
With me.
I will not let it out, not even if it damns me.
I am shocked that I am here.